


Best Mate

by sherlocksdaughter



Series: First meetings [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocksdaughter/pseuds/sherlocksdaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is saved by a heroic stranger pretending to be his best friend when someone tries to cop a feel at a nightclub in Soho.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Mate

**Author's Note:**

> This is to make up for me being currently unable to finish the third chapter of my other fic: 'Fall Like Rain'. Hope this serves as compensation!

Sherlock Holmes wanted little less than to be at a nightclub in Soho. 

In fact, Sherlock estimated that he’d rather be stripped naked in front of Mycroft and the entirety of the British government, having angel cakes thrown at his bare body, than be at a nightclub in Soho.

Unfortunately, Lestrade had propositioned him to find a murderer – one who had managed to mutilate four male prostitutes in four separate alleyways in the space of six days, spray paint the words ‘Jack the Ripper ain’t Ded’ in each and still be walking free. Lestrade had it in his head that the killer would be likely to reside in one of the most frequented nightclubs in this part of London, and had practically begged Sherlock to sniff him out: with the promise of bringing Sherlock all the grisly cases as soon as they came in for five weeks. Sherlock couldn't really refuse.

The only problem was that every single miserable human that came into this club was so insufferably _dull_. None of them had the brain capability of being a _shoplifter_ , yet alone a serial killer, and Sherlock could probably spit into his glass and that’d be the most deviant behaviour that these people would've seen in months. He sat at the bar and scowled, only reading people halfheartedly because what was the _point_ anyway. 

The building stunk as well – of vomit, of alcohol, of body odour and Sherlock was gagging for some fresh air but he knew that if he went out, he wouldn't come back in and Lestrade would probably ban him from cases for a week just to spite him. He had to at least put some effort in, but God he wish he could just have one cigarette and they probably won’t even notice if I start smoking inside because you can barely see in here anywa-

“Hey handsome, can I get you a drink?” came a slurred voice in Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock turned to see a man with a very clear body odour problem leaning towards him, his tight pink shirt drenched in sweat and dark brown hair slicked upwards in a fastidious attempt to look younger due to him having a revolting fetish for teenage boys. Sherlock couldn’t stop his nose wrinkling.

“No thank you.” he spat, shifting very un-subtly away from the man’s oily face that was drawing ever closer.

“C’mon sweetheart, don’t be a frigid dick.” He slurred, giggling as he threw a fleshy arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock shook him off furiously, turning to the oily ape and getting ready to list every single disgusting detail about his pathetic life in front of the entire club when a solid, fat hand grabbed a handful of his arse.

“Oh, I love a guy who plays hard-to-get.” The ape purred, Sherlock helpless in his horror as the man’s ugly lips began a journey to his neck and Sherlock, for the first time in a long time, began to panic. 

“Hey mate! How’s it going?” a loud voice cut through the pounding in Sherlock's ears.

Both men turned to see a short, stocky guy in an oatmeal jumper with greying sandy hair and a silver cane, beaming at Sherlock like they’d known each other since they’d been in nappies. Sherlock dimly registered the pressure of sweaty hand on his backside lighten slightly.

“Can't you see we're busy here? Who the fuck are you?” came the ape’s vulgar voice.

The jumper guy raised an eyebrow, taking a step closer, and Sherlock quickly registered his squared shoulders and tanned skin. 

“I’m the guy you’re currently sexually assaulting’s best mate. Who the fuck are you?”

Sherlock was quite certain he had never seen the man in his life, but as the ape’s sweat-drenched body began to draw away, Sherlock could have kissed him.

The man stepped next to Sherlock and gently patted him once on the shoulder, turning to Sherlock and looking him meaningfully in the eyes.

“Good to see you, mate. How have you been?” he said cheerfully, purposefully blankly ignoring the ape’s obvious distaste.

Sherlock's eyes flicked questioningly over the man's tight smile and firm stance.

“Very well, thank you. How’s the wife?” Sherlock said quickly.

The man lifted his chin, opening his mouth to say something else before the ape scoffed loudly.

“Fuck this, I’m out. Fucking frigid cunt.” The ape threw up his ugly arms and stormed away into the rabble of moving bodies, and Sherlock felt his shoulders sag in relief.

“Wow, what a cock.” The man chuckled, turning properly to Sherlock and looking at him with deep blue eyes. He laid his cane against the wall of the bar absent-mindedly and Sherlock found himself slightly distracted by the line of his strong jaw. “You alright?”

Sherlock felt his throat close up for a moment before involuntarily opening his mouth.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he said in a rush.

The man blinked at him, absolutely floored. “I’m sorry?” It sounded almost like a challenge, which only spurred Sherlock on further.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock repeated breathlessly.

“Afghanistan. How did you-“

“Your haircut and the way you hold yourself scream military, and you also have a strong moral principles judging by your compulsion to save me from sexual harassment, which is a clear army quality. Your face is tanned, but not tanned above the wrists, so you’ve been abroad recently but not sunbathing. You walk with a cane and a limp, which says that you were injured, but when you stand it’s like you forget about it – which reads at least partly psychosomatic. That must mean that the original circumstances of the injury must have been traumatic – wounded in action then. Wounded in action plus a suntan comes down to two options – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

Sherlock sucked in a shaky breath as the man stared at him; lips parted and grip loose on his cane. He opened his mouth and Sherlock braced himself to be cursed and possibly punched.

“That was………amazing.” The man breathed.

_What?_

“You think so?” Sherlock found himself stammering.

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was…. _quite_ extraordinary.” The man’s dark eyes are boring into Sherlock’s skull, his lips curled upwards in the suggestion of a smile. Sherlock watched as the man tilted ever so slightly towards him and felt dizzy with it.

“That’s not what people normally say.” Sherlock said.

“What do people normally say?”

Sherlock smirked at him. “Piss off.”

Gentle reals of laughter began to erupt from the man’s chest as he fixed his eyes on the ground and shook his head, and Sherlock felt a smile bloom across his own lips. In this proximity, Sherlock fancied he could count every single golden eyelash which delicately framed the man’s expressive eyes.

“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock said, holding his hand out with an enthusiasm that he had never before experienced with any other human in his life.

The man was beaming at him now. “John Watson.” He said, and as John shook his hand firmly, Sherlock considered how this man’s utterly ordinary name served him no justice whatsoever. 

“Doctor John Watson, I think you mean.” Sherlock replied, not even bothering to suppress the smug quirk of his lips. John laughed loudly.

“Should I even bother asking how you knew that?” he said through a snigger. Sherlock licked his lips and shifted pointedly closer.

“Of course, but it might take a while. Maybe we’d be more comfortable elsewhere?”

John cocked a challenging eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” he said, softer and lower and Sherlock felt the pit of his belly warm up.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked, feeling his own vibration of the deepest baritone he could manage.

“Starving.” John smiled, and Sherlock - for the first time since he was 17 years old and stupidly infatuated with a sociopathic boy named Victor Trevor – felt his heart flutter in his chest. He stood up, his chest hovering far too close to John’s and making Sherlock’s mouth feel far too wet.

John smirked knowingly at him and Sherlock smirked back as they walked out together, pressing against each other beautifully as they squeezed past sweaty bodies on their way to the crisp evening air.

“Fancy a Chinese?” Sherlock said as they began to walk down the damp road, falling into step with one another. “I can identify a good Chinese restaurant by the bottom third of the entrance door handle.” Sherlock felt the heady mix cool air moving pleasantly over the skin of his face and John Watson’s arm pressed against his.

“Of course you can.” John chuckled, and Sherlock looked over at his face highlighted in angles by the amber streetlight. Sherlock grinned. There wasn’t a cane in sight.


End file.
